Absent. Or, the Lepidopterist

 I don't like

the way I feel

when

you put me back on the shelf

or leave me 

on the floor

I don't like

the lack 

of any sort of commitment 

to wanting me - use your words, you tell me

using exactly none of yours.

I don't like

how you keep me close - 

A butterfly

under glass, on your desk

that sometimes catches your eye

"Oh, right... I own a pretty thing.

I'd forgotten."

Pick me up, hold me close. Watch. Study. 

Fascinating. So pretty. Bored. 

I don't like

that I think of you all the time

my day measured in seconds-

Peter. Rabbit. Peter. Rabbit. 

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

Pete (TICK). Pete (TOCK). 

I'm late, I'm late. I'm late.

I'm Over Due

And in almost

None of those same seconds

are you calling me. Or texting me. 

Or writing me. Or thinking about me. 

You pick me up

and I spring to life

Even

when pressed, pinned down, 

you can't put a name

to this dance

So. 

I don't like it. 

Whatever this is. This weird misshapen

Gone-on-too-long thing. 

I'm caught.